1. An older gentleman, sitting in an armchair, is explaining how he has missed weddings and babies being born but has never missed a Superbowl.
Wow, Jerry. Good for you, buddy. I'm sure the billion dollar industry that is the NFL really appreciates your loyalty. I bet you're lauded with flowers and poems and hugs and a suite. Oh? You sit out there with all the other faceless fans and throw money at people who have plenty?
I hope your family realizes how wonderfully special you are.
2. A curly-headed child is sitting in the backseat of his father's car. He's explaining what the car needs to have in order for it to be entertaining for him to sit in it (dvd player for sure!), while another little boy is sitting in the backseat of his parents' car while they sing passionately off tune.
Hmm.
Last I checked, nine-year-olds didn't have $25,000 plus to buy a car. The child should be grateful he isn't walking instead of looking at the other little boy like he's living large while the little boy suffers. And the little boy should be grateful his parents are still together, having fun, finding cheaper ways to entertain him, and each other, while driving to Wal-Mart or Chuck E. Cheese.
Let the curly-headed demand maker have all he wants: take it out of his college fund.
3. Women are clustered together. They lose their shit when they find out he went to Jared.
<Silence. Toe tapping.>
Um, shouldn't the big announcement be, The love of my life proposed, and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together? No? I've got it twisted? It is a big deal he went to Jared? My bad.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Morning Snow
How can you live in Colorado yet drive like you're from Florida?
As the traffic crept along this morning, I looked at all the SUVs around me and wondered why they weren't acting the part. Thirty miles-an-hour on the highway is not my idea of getting to the church on time.
But I can cut my fellow drivers a sprout. It was the first snow of the driving season; the roads were snow-packed, the lanes were anyone's guess, and it was still snowing. But when I allow myself an extra twenty minutes and I'm still two minutes late to work, I start looking at everyone else. Yes, I'm looking at you, front-wheel-drive Chrysler that insisted on being in the "fast" lane. And you, cute little something undefinable that was the color of pea soup, chugging along like you had a score to settle.
Everyone used their blinkers. Everyone abided by the adequate spacing rule. There was a real sense we were all in it together.
Once we get a couple more snows under our belt, traffic will return to normal. To be honest, I'd rather be two minutes late.
As the traffic crept along this morning, I looked at all the SUVs around me and wondered why they weren't acting the part. Thirty miles-an-hour on the highway is not my idea of getting to the church on time.
But I can cut my fellow drivers a sprout. It was the first snow of the driving season; the roads were snow-packed, the lanes were anyone's guess, and it was still snowing. But when I allow myself an extra twenty minutes and I'm still two minutes late to work, I start looking at everyone else. Yes, I'm looking at you, front-wheel-drive Chrysler that insisted on being in the "fast" lane. And you, cute little something undefinable that was the color of pea soup, chugging along like you had a score to settle.
Everyone used their blinkers. Everyone abided by the adequate spacing rule. There was a real sense we were all in it together.
Once we get a couple more snows under our belt, traffic will return to normal. To be honest, I'd rather be two minutes late.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Guilty Pleasures
I have something to admit.
I am addicted to teenage dramas.
90210. Pretty Little Liars. 10 Things I Hate About You. Make It or Break It. Anyone But Me.
But none compare to Gossip Girl.
I love Gossip Girl!
What? How? Why?
It's certainly not the story since the writers keep churning out the same plot lines season after season. It's not because it's rich with lesbians, although, I must admit, every time Blair and Serena sit on a bed together I always say, "They should kiss each other!" and it always seems like they could, if only the cameras weren't there. And it's not because I see a younger version of myself in any of the characters. It might come as a surprise, but I never sat at the bar of my father's hotel and ordered one alcoholic beverage after another as a senior in high school. I never owned a burlesque club. I didn't attend a private school where I wore a loose interpretation of the school's uniform. I never had my own driver. I was never on a one-on-one basis with the dean of Columbia. And I never plotted to run someone who had crossed me out of town, but if I could go back and do it again, I would try. Not that anyone crossed me, but knowing the option was there might have changed things.
It's the decadence. The extravagance. The fortress around them that no one can penetrate. The houses, apartments, cars, clothes, vacations, food, beverages, never having to take the subway, all wrapped up in a ridiculous package where the kids are in charge, and the parents are there as a money source. It's the way people come in and try to destroy Serena or Blair and fail because their kind of money always wins. And it could have something to do with Blake Lively's breasts, but I would never admit it.
There is bound to be judgement, I know. But I can't help it. I'm addicted to Gossip Girl. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
Whatever. You know you love me. Xoxo...Whack-A-Muse.
I am addicted to teenage dramas.
90210. Pretty Little Liars. 10 Things I Hate About You. Make It or Break It. Anyone But Me.
But none compare to Gossip Girl.
I love Gossip Girl!
What? How? Why?
It's certainly not the story since the writers keep churning out the same plot lines season after season. It's not because it's rich with lesbians, although, I must admit, every time Blair and Serena sit on a bed together I always say, "They should kiss each other!" and it always seems like they could, if only the cameras weren't there. And it's not because I see a younger version of myself in any of the characters. It might come as a surprise, but I never sat at the bar of my father's hotel and ordered one alcoholic beverage after another as a senior in high school. I never owned a burlesque club. I didn't attend a private school where I wore a loose interpretation of the school's uniform. I never had my own driver. I was never on a one-on-one basis with the dean of Columbia. And I never plotted to run someone who had crossed me out of town, but if I could go back and do it again, I would try. Not that anyone crossed me, but knowing the option was there might have changed things.
It's the decadence. The extravagance. The fortress around them that no one can penetrate. The houses, apartments, cars, clothes, vacations, food, beverages, never having to take the subway, all wrapped up in a ridiculous package where the kids are in charge, and the parents are there as a money source. It's the way people come in and try to destroy Serena or Blair and fail because their kind of money always wins. And it could have something to do with Blake Lively's breasts, but I would never admit it.
There is bound to be judgement, I know. But I can't help it. I'm addicted to Gossip Girl. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
Whatever. You know you love me. Xoxo...Whack-A-Muse.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Ego Schmego
If egos could power the world, nothing would ever need to be plugged in.
Some people think that because of what they do, or the money they make, or just because they are who they are, they are something special. I don't think there is anything wrong with one recognizing one's talents. We all have specialties we can bring to the table. But that shouldn't be confused with thinking we deserve to be at the table more than someone else.
When it comes to writing, there is an exceptional amount of ego. I have met a few writers who think they are so special that they don't bother to proofread. Or maybe they do proofread but because they are blinded by their ego, they see nothing wrong with their comma spices, misspellings, unintended fragments, and run-on sentences.
I do not write from a place of ego. I write because I have to. Without it, I would suffer. Am I the best writer? Hardly. Is that all right with me? Absolutely. I believe there is room for everyone, and because of that, I don't need to be better than anyone but me.
So then, why blog? Why post it to Facebook? Why do the things that can be construed as egotistical? Because writing is a business. In the same way department stores advertise in newspapers, I advertise by blogging. People need to be attracted to products or they won't sell.
A writer's success has everything to do with connecting to an audience. That is why I do the things I swore I would never do, like blogging. Is it working? If I had an ego, I would think, Yes, it is.
Some people think that because of what they do, or the money they make, or just because they are who they are, they are something special. I don't think there is anything wrong with one recognizing one's talents. We all have specialties we can bring to the table. But that shouldn't be confused with thinking we deserve to be at the table more than someone else.
When it comes to writing, there is an exceptional amount of ego. I have met a few writers who think they are so special that they don't bother to proofread. Or maybe they do proofread but because they are blinded by their ego, they see nothing wrong with their comma spices, misspellings, unintended fragments, and run-on sentences.
I do not write from a place of ego. I write because I have to. Without it, I would suffer. Am I the best writer? Hardly. Is that all right with me? Absolutely. I believe there is room for everyone, and because of that, I don't need to be better than anyone but me.
So then, why blog? Why post it to Facebook? Why do the things that can be construed as egotistical? Because writing is a business. In the same way department stores advertise in newspapers, I advertise by blogging. People need to be attracted to products or they won't sell.
A writer's success has everything to do with connecting to an audience. That is why I do the things I swore I would never do, like blogging. Is it working? If I had an ego, I would think, Yes, it is.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Black Friday
My wife has decided to start off the day by watching a scary movie.
I am doing everything I can to pretend it isn't happening.
When I asked her, fifteen minutes into it, if it was almost over, she laughed and said no. Then she tried to reassure me that it wasn't scary.
Bullshit.
When everyone is screaming like it's the end of days, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.
When nice old ladies turn into flesh-eating evil-doers, blood dripping down their chin, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.
When it's dark outside and the screaming people are running around, trying to save one of their own, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.
My wife insists I can't even see what's going on. She's doing her best to defuse my internal situation.
But she doesn't understand that even though it is bright and sunny outside and the little birds are happily eating from the feeders and the basset is sleeping beside me on the sofa and no one else in the household seems to have an issue with it, there are just some things that I can't get past. People screaming and dying and screaming and dying some more when it's bright and sunny outside, when the little birds are eating, when the basset slumbers beside me, is precisely one of those things.
I am doing everything I can to pretend it isn't happening.
When I asked her, fifteen minutes into it, if it was almost over, she laughed and said no. Then she tried to reassure me that it wasn't scary.
Bullshit.
When everyone is screaming like it's the end of days, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.
When nice old ladies turn into flesh-eating evil-doers, blood dripping down their chin, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.
When it's dark outside and the screaming people are running around, trying to save one of their own, that's all it takes for me to think something is scary.
My wife insists I can't even see what's going on. She's doing her best to defuse my internal situation.
But she doesn't understand that even though it is bright and sunny outside and the little birds are happily eating from the feeders and the basset is sleeping beside me on the sofa and no one else in the household seems to have an issue with it, there are just some things that I can't get past. People screaming and dying and screaming and dying some more when it's bright and sunny outside, when the little birds are eating, when the basset slumbers beside me, is precisely one of those things.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Trickle Down
The GOP's argument for keeping the Bush tax cuts in place for the wealthiest Americans is because the wealthiest American's money will trickle down.
If that's the case, why is anything open tomorrow? Why do hard working Americans have to work on a holiday that is meant to be spent with family and friends? Gas stations, grocery stores, video stores, restaurants, convenient stores will all be open tomorrow. In a time when the rich keep getting richer, one day of their businesses not being open won't send them into bankruptcy.
I don't call that trickling down. I call that greed, calling its troops into another ridiculous battle.
We all know that the people running these companies will be doing whatever the hell they feel like tomorrow, maybe even spending time with their own family and friends and celebrating all they have.
In this economy I am thankful to have a job. And I'm sure everyone working tomorrow will feel the same way, in a sense. But I certainly don't think they'll feel like they no longer want be treated like a human being with their own families and friends.
So let's use our purchasing power and not buy a damn thing tomorrow. If you forgot it, you don't need it. Come Friday, everything you could buy tomorrow will still be there. Let's send a message and tell these companies that being open on a holiday loses them money. That will surely get their attention.
If that's the case, why is anything open tomorrow? Why do hard working Americans have to work on a holiday that is meant to be spent with family and friends? Gas stations, grocery stores, video stores, restaurants, convenient stores will all be open tomorrow. In a time when the rich keep getting richer, one day of their businesses not being open won't send them into bankruptcy.
I don't call that trickling down. I call that greed, calling its troops into another ridiculous battle.
We all know that the people running these companies will be doing whatever the hell they feel like tomorrow, maybe even spending time with their own family and friends and celebrating all they have.
In this economy I am thankful to have a job. And I'm sure everyone working tomorrow will feel the same way, in a sense. But I certainly don't think they'll feel like they no longer want be treated like a human being with their own families and friends.
So let's use our purchasing power and not buy a damn thing tomorrow. If you forgot it, you don't need it. Come Friday, everything you could buy tomorrow will still be there. Let's send a message and tell these companies that being open on a holiday loses them money. That will surely get their attention.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Naked Truth
Two hours of my morning were spent trying to send out a single query. For some reason, my Mac turned against me. The formatting was all wrong, and I couldn't figure out how to fix it. If only I were technically inclined instead of writing inclined.
Since I couldn't do shit about querying, I decided to get more organized. In doing so, I found numbers that hopefully work in my favor. Up to date, I have sent nineteen queries. I have received eight personalized rejections, four form rejections, two non responses, one yes-send-me-the-manuscript, and the rest are either pending or I won't hear anything. Nineteen queries and one request to see more.
I stood in the shower and let the numbers sink in. I usually stay so focused on the business I need to tend to, I rarely have time to feel. And, boy, did I feel. Those days when I'm so focused I forget to eat sat at my feet and licked my toes. The feeling of wanting it so bad landed on my chest like a plane making an emergency landing. Tears fell for all the agents who took time out of their busy schedules to personally tell me no. And the agent who currently has my manuscript? My chest fills with bricks when I let myself really think about her. I feel like I could fall down drunk off possibility, my legs no longer able to support how big an event it truly is.
There is a reason I don't allow myself to feel all the time. The enormity, the sheer magnitude of being one step closer to meeting my dream face to face (which has transformed into a goal), would drive me insane. So I focus on the day to day. After all, the day to day is all I can control.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sportsmanship is a Four Letter Word
I am growing tired of watching grown men act like Neanderthals.
The right tackle overpowers his man on the offensive line, wraps his arms around the quarterback, slams said quarterback into the ground, and gets up and stomps around like he's summonsing a thunderstorm. A tight end makes a nice catch in the middle of the field and stands up to make an exaggerated first down gesture, like he has forgotten there is a referee standing by to explain it to everyone. A running back finds a nice hole, picks up forty yards, and then beats his chest like he has a little lady he needs to get to holding while climbing a really tall building.
Instead of receiving my admiration for making a nice play, they remind me they're just assholes.
I'd like to see a doctor come out of the operating room, beating her chest, because she just saved someone from dying from a heartattack. Saving lives is important. Throwing and catching a ball is not. It is only a sport designed to make a lot of money for entertainment purposes.
The lack of sportsmanship in professional sports is really turning me off. I find myself yelling at the players to get their ego in check more than I yell about a broken play, a dropped pass, or an unexpected score. There was a time when Football Sunday was precisely that: a day where I did little else but watch football. I didn't write. I didn't read. I didn't take phone calls. Yesterday, I spent more time reading than I did watching football. Granted, the book I read--until it was finished--can be described only as phenomenal, but I doubt Ms. Grodstein stomped around her house when she found out her novel, A Friend of the Family, was going to be published. And when Patti Smith won the National Book Award for her memoir, Just Kids, she did not get in the faces of the other nominees and talk shit while beating her chest.
It's called manners. It's called knowing your place. It's called being a decent human being. It's called respecting others. And it seems to be fading into a distant memory.
The right tackle overpowers his man on the offensive line, wraps his arms around the quarterback, slams said quarterback into the ground, and gets up and stomps around like he's summonsing a thunderstorm. A tight end makes a nice catch in the middle of the field and stands up to make an exaggerated first down gesture, like he has forgotten there is a referee standing by to explain it to everyone. A running back finds a nice hole, picks up forty yards, and then beats his chest like he has a little lady he needs to get to holding while climbing a really tall building.
Instead of receiving my admiration for making a nice play, they remind me they're just assholes.
I'd like to see a doctor come out of the operating room, beating her chest, because she just saved someone from dying from a heartattack. Saving lives is important. Throwing and catching a ball is not. It is only a sport designed to make a lot of money for entertainment purposes.
The lack of sportsmanship in professional sports is really turning me off. I find myself yelling at the players to get their ego in check more than I yell about a broken play, a dropped pass, or an unexpected score. There was a time when Football Sunday was precisely that: a day where I did little else but watch football. I didn't write. I didn't read. I didn't take phone calls. Yesterday, I spent more time reading than I did watching football. Granted, the book I read--until it was finished--can be described only as phenomenal, but I doubt Ms. Grodstein stomped around her house when she found out her novel, A Friend of the Family, was going to be published. And when Patti Smith won the National Book Award for her memoir, Just Kids, she did not get in the faces of the other nominees and talk shit while beating her chest.
It's called manners. It's called knowing your place. It's called being a decent human being. It's called respecting others. And it seems to be fading into a distant memory.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Straight People
I love straight people because they can hold hands where ever they go. It is their birthright, after all.
I love straight people because they can know each other for a day and get married.
I love straight people because they can get divorced and married in the same day.
I love straight people because when my wife and I are holding hands, it is the most fascinating thing they have ever seen. I know we're not Ellen and Portia, but feel free to take a picture already.
I love straight people because they are constantly reminded that they're not only better than me, but their love is more natural. And they believe it.
I love straight people because they think their relationships hold more weight. The laws are set up for them to think they are something special.
I love straight people because the movies made about them have nothing to do with their sexuality.
I love straight people because they make the laws.
I love straight people because they get to have unplanned pregnancies.
I love straight people because they make better soldiers.
I love straight people because they can check into a hotel and request one bed without an eyebrow being raised.
I love straight people because they can eat off each other's fork in a restaurant without the dining room breaking out in whispers.
I love straight people because they conveniently forget they, too, are revolting to think about.
I love all the straight people in my life. Really. I do. No fooling. The aforementioned examples apply to the straight people I don't know. You know who you are.
I love straight people because they can know each other for a day and get married.
I love straight people because they can get divorced and married in the same day.
I love straight people because when my wife and I are holding hands, it is the most fascinating thing they have ever seen. I know we're not Ellen and Portia, but feel free to take a picture already.
I love straight people because they are constantly reminded that they're not only better than me, but their love is more natural. And they believe it.
I love straight people because they think their relationships hold more weight. The laws are set up for them to think they are something special.
I love straight people because the movies made about them have nothing to do with their sexuality.
I love straight people because they make the laws.
I love straight people because they get to have unplanned pregnancies.
I love straight people because they make better soldiers.
I love straight people because they can check into a hotel and request one bed without an eyebrow being raised.
I love straight people because they can eat off each other's fork in a restaurant without the dining room breaking out in whispers.
I love straight people because they conveniently forget they, too, are revolting to think about.
I love all the straight people in my life. Really. I do. No fooling. The aforementioned examples apply to the straight people I don't know. You know who you are.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Feeling Better
I'm having a hard time coming up with something to blog about. I think it might have something to do with how I feel: like shit.
Being sick sucks.
My brain feels like boiled potatoes. My arms feel like they're putrefying from the inside out. My throat wants to retire. And my eyes feel like Megan Fox: hot. hot. hot.
If I could only latch onto something instead of bumping into random topics, I'm sure today's post would be better. At least it would have a chance to be entertaining. Instead, I'm just spouting off, without direction, without focus, without a point of view.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about all the damn Thanksgiving commercials featuring turkeys, like living turkeys are what Thanksgiving is all about. Yeah, that's a good one.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about Joe Miller being a flaccid penis when it comes to losing to Lisa Murkowski's write-in campaign. You lost, Joe. Go home and bite your pillow already.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about John McCain and his strong opposition to overturning Don't Ask Don't Tell. What's the matter, John? Did you think when you were serving everyone was straight? Were those the good old days? As an ex-prisoner of war, you should have better manners. Compassion should ooze out of your pores. And you, more than anyone, should understand the desire fellow Americans have for serving their country, despite what happens in their personal, private lives.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about people who make animals wear clothes. There is a reason it's called Baby Gap and not Puppy Gap.
I can't wait to feel better.
Being sick sucks.
My brain feels like boiled potatoes. My arms feel like they're putrefying from the inside out. My throat wants to retire. And my eyes feel like Megan Fox: hot. hot. hot.
If I could only latch onto something instead of bumping into random topics, I'm sure today's post would be better. At least it would have a chance to be entertaining. Instead, I'm just spouting off, without direction, without focus, without a point of view.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about all the damn Thanksgiving commercials featuring turkeys, like living turkeys are what Thanksgiving is all about. Yeah, that's a good one.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about Joe Miller being a flaccid penis when it comes to losing to Lisa Murkowski's write-in campaign. You lost, Joe. Go home and bite your pillow already.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about John McCain and his strong opposition to overturning Don't Ask Don't Tell. What's the matter, John? Did you think when you were serving everyone was straight? Were those the good old days? As an ex-prisoner of war, you should have better manners. Compassion should ooze out of your pores. And you, more than anyone, should understand the desire fellow Americans have for serving their country, despite what happens in their personal, private lives.
If I felt better, I might have something to say about people who make animals wear clothes. There is a reason it's called Baby Gap and not Puppy Gap.
I can't wait to feel better.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: Children
I cannot believe
The things my mother dealt with.
I was disgusting.
I don't want to see
A picture of your child
With food on its face.
Unless your child
Has four legs and is furry,
I really don't care.
The things my mother dealt with.
I was disgusting.
I don't want to see
A picture of your child
With food on its face.
Unless your child
Has four legs and is furry,
I really don't care.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sophie's Choice
If you had to. Just had to. Pick one. Only one. Which one would it be?
Sometimes, it's hard to boil such decisions down to only one. But in this case, it's hard to pick one. I mean, they're fuzzy. Furry. Friendly. And they brighten your day with a song.
But still. I was asked. And still, it feels an impossible question to answer.
But I have to. Pick one. Only one. Which one will it be?
There's Kermit. And there's Miss Piggy. Animal and Fozzie Bear. Gonzo. Scooter. The Swedish Chef. Beaker. Janice. Statler and Waldorf. Sam the Eagle. And just to add more variety, Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Snuffleupagus, Bert and Ernie, Elmo, Grover, Cookie Monster, Curly Bear, The Count. There are more that could be added to the list, but at the time, these were all the Muppets and Sesame Street characters I could think of.
And now, I have to choose.
Miss Piggy was a popular choice, but to be honest, I like her savvy. I like her grit. Her determination. Her bossiness. I don't care for her violence, but she's a pig. I can forgive it. So, no, I can't pick her. And Kermit? Forget about it! Fozzie, Gonzo, Big Bird, Snuffleupagus, and Elmo are all a no-way-in-hell. I thought about Oscar, but he's too easy: he's grouchy. But he lives in a trash can. He seems an unfair choice. Cookie Monster might have it coming because of his nutritional mindset, but still, no. I considered Statler and Waldorf longer than the others. They were never very nice to anyone else. But they're both old. And which one? They cancel each other out.
I gasped when my wife chose Snuffleupagus. I couldn't believe it. He was always my favorite Sesame Streeter. Her rationale revolved around him always disappearing when Big Bird needed him to exist, so Big Bird wouldn't seem crazy in the eyes of his other friends. I say, hogwash.
When it comes right down to it, if I have to punch a Muppet or a Sesame Streeter in the face, I would pick Janice, the guitar playing hippie. Don't take the choice to be a social commentary on how I feel about hippies. It's only because she's always so dopey; not really with it. I choose her because I think she would be the one less likely to feel it. And maybe, just maybe, deep down, I do think she deserves it. Maybe, just maybe, I think she's a little too cool. A little too hip. Maybe she always tested my mettle. Tested my self esteem. And I failed every time.
When impossible choices must be made, they should not be made fool-heartedly. If a fist has to fly, make sure it lands on the candidate you can live with.
Sometimes, it's hard to boil such decisions down to only one. But in this case, it's hard to pick one. I mean, they're fuzzy. Furry. Friendly. And they brighten your day with a song.
But still. I was asked. And still, it feels an impossible question to answer.
But I have to. Pick one. Only one. Which one will it be?
There's Kermit. And there's Miss Piggy. Animal and Fozzie Bear. Gonzo. Scooter. The Swedish Chef. Beaker. Janice. Statler and Waldorf. Sam the Eagle. And just to add more variety, Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Snuffleupagus, Bert and Ernie, Elmo, Grover, Cookie Monster, Curly Bear, The Count. There are more that could be added to the list, but at the time, these were all the Muppets and Sesame Street characters I could think of.
And now, I have to choose.
Miss Piggy was a popular choice, but to be honest, I like her savvy. I like her grit. Her determination. Her bossiness. I don't care for her violence, but she's a pig. I can forgive it. So, no, I can't pick her. And Kermit? Forget about it! Fozzie, Gonzo, Big Bird, Snuffleupagus, and Elmo are all a no-way-in-hell. I thought about Oscar, but he's too easy: he's grouchy. But he lives in a trash can. He seems an unfair choice. Cookie Monster might have it coming because of his nutritional mindset, but still, no. I considered Statler and Waldorf longer than the others. They were never very nice to anyone else. But they're both old. And which one? They cancel each other out.
I gasped when my wife chose Snuffleupagus. I couldn't believe it. He was always my favorite Sesame Streeter. Her rationale revolved around him always disappearing when Big Bird needed him to exist, so Big Bird wouldn't seem crazy in the eyes of his other friends. I say, hogwash.
When it comes right down to it, if I have to punch a Muppet or a Sesame Streeter in the face, I would pick Janice, the guitar playing hippie. Don't take the choice to be a social commentary on how I feel about hippies. It's only because she's always so dopey; not really with it. I choose her because I think she would be the one less likely to feel it. And maybe, just maybe, deep down, I do think she deserves it. Maybe, just maybe, I think she's a little too cool. A little too hip. Maybe she always tested my mettle. Tested my self esteem. And I failed every time.
When impossible choices must be made, they should not be made fool-heartedly. If a fist has to fly, make sure it lands on the candidate you can live with.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Decision Points
It is important that difficult scenarios always be discussed with your significant other.
For instance, my wife and I decided that we should be on each other's personal financial accounts, incase something horrible should befall either of us.
I let my wife know that if she is in the hospital, and I'm not by her side because I'm not considered a family member, to know that I am doing all I can to be with her. That that much is always understood.
If someone comes into our place of work, guns blazing, she should exit the building using the door right by her desk and run due east. She should not come find me so we can get out together. If I can't make it to an exit, I will throw a chair through the window and come find her. (I have thought about keeping a bowling ball at work for this very purpose.)
We will always stay put if we become lost while hiking.
If we are separated due to a natural disaster, I am focusing all my energy on getting to her.
And last night, I let my wife know that if I ever turn into a zombie, she has my permission to shoot me in the head. I know it would be hard to do, but it's not me anyway. And if I am still in there somewhere, I would hate myself if I turned on her because I was hungry.
It's always good to have a plan. Because when your spouse is coming towards you with that look in her eye--that look that says she is going to do everything she can to rip you open and eat your intestines--and you haven't discussed what to do, your trigger finger may falter. No one wants that.
For instance, my wife and I decided that we should be on each other's personal financial accounts, incase something horrible should befall either of us.
I let my wife know that if she is in the hospital, and I'm not by her side because I'm not considered a family member, to know that I am doing all I can to be with her. That that much is always understood.
If someone comes into our place of work, guns blazing, she should exit the building using the door right by her desk and run due east. She should not come find me so we can get out together. If I can't make it to an exit, I will throw a chair through the window and come find her. (I have thought about keeping a bowling ball at work for this very purpose.)
We will always stay put if we become lost while hiking.
If we are separated due to a natural disaster, I am focusing all my energy on getting to her.
And last night, I let my wife know that if I ever turn into a zombie, she has my permission to shoot me in the head. I know it would be hard to do, but it's not me anyway. And if I am still in there somewhere, I would hate myself if I turned on her because I was hungry.
It's always good to have a plan. Because when your spouse is coming towards you with that look in her eye--that look that says she is going to do everything she can to rip you open and eat your intestines--and you haven't discussed what to do, your trigger finger may falter. No one wants that.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Dodging Bullets
The news reported another egg distributor pulling their eggs from the shelves because salmonella was found. The following day, I overheard someone asking what brand it was so they made sure not to buy it. It's funny the things we tell ourselves so our lives aren't interrupted, so we can have whatever we want, whenever we want it.
I am a vegan for a reason. I am a vegan because I lifted the veil of ignorance and found out about the food I was putting into my body. And as much as you think you don't want to know, believe me, you do.
You can't eat all the animals you want, including their by-products without a lot of shit being generated. And there is no regulation on how to dispose of all that shit. If you think that every time you eat a cheeseburger that there isn't poop in it, well, you should probably not bother to find out. Same thing with eggs. And pork. There is poop--real life fecal matter--in all factory farmed animal products.
Every time you put factory farmed animals into your mouth and don't get sick, you've dodged a bullet. Eggs especially. If you think the chickens are healthy and happy, clucking around the farm whistling Dixie, you done lost your mind. If you think chicken farms are sanitary and those overseeing the farms take care with the product they are providing, you're just begging to be slapped into reality. Truth is, most people don't see chickens, pigs, or cows as animals, but as objects. Because objects don't feel pain. Animals do. Objects don't get sad. Animals do. Objects don't get scared. Animals do. And if animals are objects, than their living conditions don't have to be anything special. They can be sick. They can be tortured. They just have to stay alive.
Now, I'm not saying everyone go vegan. That's ridiculous. But know where your food comes from. Support farms that treat their animals like animals. It's imperative to your health, and the health of your children. Because the seventeen different antibiotics you had with last night's pork chops will make sure you and yours are susceptible to whatever super bug comes next. And me? Oh, don't worry about me. I'll visit you in the hospital, but will not hold my tongue when it comes to I told you so.
I am a vegan for a reason. I am a vegan because I lifted the veil of ignorance and found out about the food I was putting into my body. And as much as you think you don't want to know, believe me, you do.
You can't eat all the animals you want, including their by-products without a lot of shit being generated. And there is no regulation on how to dispose of all that shit. If you think that every time you eat a cheeseburger that there isn't poop in it, well, you should probably not bother to find out. Same thing with eggs. And pork. There is poop--real life fecal matter--in all factory farmed animal products.
Every time you put factory farmed animals into your mouth and don't get sick, you've dodged a bullet. Eggs especially. If you think the chickens are healthy and happy, clucking around the farm whistling Dixie, you done lost your mind. If you think chicken farms are sanitary and those overseeing the farms take care with the product they are providing, you're just begging to be slapped into reality. Truth is, most people don't see chickens, pigs, or cows as animals, but as objects. Because objects don't feel pain. Animals do. Objects don't get sad. Animals do. Objects don't get scared. Animals do. And if animals are objects, than their living conditions don't have to be anything special. They can be sick. They can be tortured. They just have to stay alive.
Now, I'm not saying everyone go vegan. That's ridiculous. But know where your food comes from. Support farms that treat their animals like animals. It's imperative to your health, and the health of your children. Because the seventeen different antibiotics you had with last night's pork chops will make sure you and yours are susceptible to whatever super bug comes next. And me? Oh, don't worry about me. I'll visit you in the hospital, but will not hold my tongue when it comes to I told you so.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Gobble, Gobble
We have all kinds of wildlife where we live: Bears, mountain lions, foxes, deer, elk, rabbits, mice, coyotes...but my absolute favorite are the wild turkeys.
Last Sunday, my wife returned from her run to report she was chased by the turkeys. Two of them flew beside her to flank her on the right. When she turned around, the head turkey had his wings spread wide, chest out proudly, his head bobbing back and forth as he gave pursuit. A small army of turkeys behind him. The turkey meant business. She said it was scary. I doubt it. Chased!? By the turkeys!? I would have given my breakfast had they chased me instead!
So when I read in our weekly work newsletter that November 12th is "Take a Turkey to Work Day", I immediately started thinking of ways to coerce one of the wild turkeys into the car. And then into a harness. Attached to a leash. I thought about using my wife as a bait, but it might be too risky. I would hate for the flock to turn on us as we plucked one out of the pack. I mean, they're already feeling threatened by a woman running on their turf. And who's to say the turkeys would believe my assurances that their turkey friend would be back before dinner?
I haven't figured out how to bring my turkey to work yet, but I still have twenty-four hours. I daydream about me and my turkey posing for pictures (photo op!). Taking my turkey around to all the different departments, making introductions. Explaining my work equipment to my turkey. Working while my turkey takes a nap, in my lap, because our activities have been a lot for a turkey to take in, especially all in one day!
I don't know what work is thinking, but if I do figure out how to bring my turkey to work, there is no way I'm going to put my turkey in one of the freezers. And anyone who would is just sick. I know it's winter, but I don't think the freezer is going to make the turkeys feel more at home.
Last Sunday, my wife returned from her run to report she was chased by the turkeys. Two of them flew beside her to flank her on the right. When she turned around, the head turkey had his wings spread wide, chest out proudly, his head bobbing back and forth as he gave pursuit. A small army of turkeys behind him. The turkey meant business. She said it was scary. I doubt it. Chased!? By the turkeys!? I would have given my breakfast had they chased me instead!
So when I read in our weekly work newsletter that November 12th is "Take a Turkey to Work Day", I immediately started thinking of ways to coerce one of the wild turkeys into the car. And then into a harness. Attached to a leash. I thought about using my wife as a bait, but it might be too risky. I would hate for the flock to turn on us as we plucked one out of the pack. I mean, they're already feeling threatened by a woman running on their turf. And who's to say the turkeys would believe my assurances that their turkey friend would be back before dinner?
I haven't figured out how to bring my turkey to work yet, but I still have twenty-four hours. I daydream about me and my turkey posing for pictures (photo op!). Taking my turkey around to all the different departments, making introductions. Explaining my work equipment to my turkey. Working while my turkey takes a nap, in my lap, because our activities have been a lot for a turkey to take in, especially all in one day!
I don't know what work is thinking, but if I do figure out how to bring my turkey to work, there is no way I'm going to put my turkey in one of the freezers. And anyone who would is just sick. I know it's winter, but I don't think the freezer is going to make the turkeys feel more at home.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Finest Hour
I've been wicked sick lately. Sore, itchy throat. Runny nose. Red face. Feverish eyes. Gut-wrenching cough. I think I'm finally on the downhill of the ailment, but this morning, there was an incident that made me feel like I might need additional help.
5:25 AM: I look at the clock and see I have five minutes before the alarm goes off. I decide to get out of bed.
5:26 AM: The minute my feet hit the floor, I realize I really have to pee.
5:28 AM: The babies (the dogs) and I are upstairs, heading down the hallway.
5:28 AM: I grab a tissue on the way.
5:29 AM: I let the babies outside, realizing I still need to pee. Bad. I think about stepping away, but the basset has to be supervised while outside because she likes to put "unsavory" items into her mouth.
5:30 AM: Holy shit, I really have to pee! I blow my nose.
5:35 AM: The basset has been walking around for a lifetime, finding the perfect piece of real estate to drop off her kids. And finally; she lets them go on a really nice piece of dirt, covered by a gentle layer of snow.
5:36 AM: I cough. Hard. I lose focus.
5:37 AM: It takes me a second or two to figure out that the small stream of warmth I feel running down my leg and into my slipper is, in fact, pee. Not a lot. Just enough to take the edge off.
5:37 AM: Really?!?!
5:37 AM: I eyeball the tissue in my hand.
5:37 AM: I use said tissue to clean up what hasn't quite yet made it into the slipper.
5:38 AM: The basset is finally done. The babies come in.
5:39 AM: I use the facilities. It feels like love. I flush the tissue.
5:40 AM: It's shower time. I set the slippers in front of the heat vent.
5:50 AM: I'm out of the shower. Slipper is dry. All incriminating evidence has been erased.
5:51 AM: I decide this never happened.
5:25 AM: I look at the clock and see I have five minutes before the alarm goes off. I decide to get out of bed.
5:26 AM: The minute my feet hit the floor, I realize I really have to pee.
5:28 AM: The babies (the dogs) and I are upstairs, heading down the hallway.
5:28 AM: I grab a tissue on the way.
5:29 AM: I let the babies outside, realizing I still need to pee. Bad. I think about stepping away, but the basset has to be supervised while outside because she likes to put "unsavory" items into her mouth.
5:30 AM: Holy shit, I really have to pee! I blow my nose.
5:35 AM: The basset has been walking around for a lifetime, finding the perfect piece of real estate to drop off her kids. And finally; she lets them go on a really nice piece of dirt, covered by a gentle layer of snow.
5:36 AM: I cough. Hard. I lose focus.
5:37 AM: It takes me a second or two to figure out that the small stream of warmth I feel running down my leg and into my slipper is, in fact, pee. Not a lot. Just enough to take the edge off.
5:37 AM: Really?!?!
5:37 AM: I eyeball the tissue in my hand.
5:37 AM: I use said tissue to clean up what hasn't quite yet made it into the slipper.
5:38 AM: The basset is finally done. The babies come in.
5:39 AM: I use the facilities. It feels like love. I flush the tissue.
5:40 AM: It's shower time. I set the slippers in front of the heat vent.
5:50 AM: I'm out of the shower. Slipper is dry. All incriminating evidence has been erased.
5:51 AM: I decide this never happened.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The List: Part Two
Here are more examples of certain behaviors that are guaranteed to get you kicked off my list of respectable human beings. Once again, enjoy.
When there are twenty cars in front of me, and you insist on riding my bumper so closely that I can't see your headlights. Okay. I get it. You're in a hurry. But I can't go anywhere. And neither can you. Gosh, if I could, I'd pull over and let you know that you really are important. But I'm in the midst of getting where I need to go. We all are. Sorry. You'll have to wait your turn. Too bad, too. Because I'm sure wherever you're headed is really important--the kind of place those of us in front of you couldn't possibly understand. Off the list, All Powerful Being!
When you insist that gay marriage goes against all laws of nature, but you take fertility drugs to the point you pop out six kids. Yeah, that's natural. Off the list, hypocrite!
When you tell me you know how bad the food you're about to shove in your face is but eat it anyway. Just keep your mouth shut, in both regards. Off the list, Reece's Pieces!
When you pull out in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, and you glare at me like I'm the asshole. Next time, why don't you really send the message home and flip me off too. That will really teach me a lesson. Off the list, Asshole!
When I'm trying to merge onto a two lane highway, and you're in the right lane with no one beside you, and you can't get over to let me in. It's just the two of us here. What are you going to do? I have to hit the breaks or gun it so I can get over before my merge lane ends. You know what, jackass? Next time, I'm not giving in. I'm going to keep driving, into the gravel, into the grass, into the big-ass hill, and you can watch as my car explodes. Is that what you want? IS IT!?!? Off the list Grim Reaper!
If you missed the first list and are curious to know if you made it or not, check out the original list posted on 10/12. Until next time, thanks again to everyone who's still on the list. You are the spike to my punch. The garter to my belt. The bitch to my slap. You are all truly wonderful.
When there are twenty cars in front of me, and you insist on riding my bumper so closely that I can't see your headlights. Okay. I get it. You're in a hurry. But I can't go anywhere. And neither can you. Gosh, if I could, I'd pull over and let you know that you really are important. But I'm in the midst of getting where I need to go. We all are. Sorry. You'll have to wait your turn. Too bad, too. Because I'm sure wherever you're headed is really important--the kind of place those of us in front of you couldn't possibly understand. Off the list, All Powerful Being!
When you insist that gay marriage goes against all laws of nature, but you take fertility drugs to the point you pop out six kids. Yeah, that's natural. Off the list, hypocrite!
When you tell me you know how bad the food you're about to shove in your face is but eat it anyway. Just keep your mouth shut, in both regards. Off the list, Reece's Pieces!
When you pull out in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, and you glare at me like I'm the asshole. Next time, why don't you really send the message home and flip me off too. That will really teach me a lesson. Off the list, Asshole!
When I'm trying to merge onto a two lane highway, and you're in the right lane with no one beside you, and you can't get over to let me in. It's just the two of us here. What are you going to do? I have to hit the breaks or gun it so I can get over before my merge lane ends. You know what, jackass? Next time, I'm not giving in. I'm going to keep driving, into the gravel, into the grass, into the big-ass hill, and you can watch as my car explodes. Is that what you want? IS IT!?!? Off the list Grim Reaper!
If you missed the first list and are curious to know if you made it or not, check out the original list posted on 10/12. Until next time, thanks again to everyone who's still on the list. You are the spike to my punch. The garter to my belt. The bitch to my slap. You are all truly wonderful.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Answers to Your Vegan Questions
Most people, when I tell them I'm a vegan, make fun of me. I eat dandelions. I eat tree bark. I eat twigs rubbed in dirt. They cannot, for the life of them, figure out what I could possibly eat by not eating animals or their by-products. In their minds, I've eliminated 99.9% of the food available to eat.
That is so not that case.
So for anyone still confused on what I eat, let me make it very clear: I eat tires. I eat plastic shampoo bottles. I eat batteries. I eat cell phones. I eat carboard. All the recycables you throw into your colored bins end up on a vegan's plate.
You see, we vegans take the planet and the creatures on it very seriously. You can only make so many plastic water bottles into bags, so what's leftover is sent to any registered vegan to be consumed, thereby reducing landfill waste.
You may be asking, How is that possible? How can you digest tires? Well, it's easy! Once you register at the iamveganbecauseicareaboutpeopleandtheirchildrenwhointurndontcareaboutme.org, you receive, between 6-8 weeks, your Vegan Survival Kit. It includes:
A set of stainless steel teeth
A silver lined stomach
A plastic--made out of soda bottles, of course--intestinal tract
A pine scented air freshener
When you go vegan, it's a lot like converting your car to biodiesel: you get a whole new system. It's a difficult adjustment for the first month, but by the second month, there is nothing your system can't handle. I've even graduated to picking through construction sites! You wouldn't believe how good nails are between a couple of two by fours.
So, for anyone out there who thinks veganism might be something you're interested in, ask yourself a few basic questions:
Do I care about how animals are treated?
Do I care about the topsoil they are ruining and will never come back?
Do I care about setting healthy food habits for my children? (I'm sorry, but Snackables don't count.) :(
Do I care about my children inheriting a healthy planet?
If you answered no to any of these questions, you might not qualify for the program. But don't fret. I can help you. I'm here day or night to answer your vegan questions. And remember, if you ever get a hankerin' to make fun of someone who isn't like you, think about what makes them different and try it again.
That is so not that case.
So for anyone still confused on what I eat, let me make it very clear: I eat tires. I eat plastic shampoo bottles. I eat batteries. I eat cell phones. I eat carboard. All the recycables you throw into your colored bins end up on a vegan's plate.
You see, we vegans take the planet and the creatures on it very seriously. You can only make so many plastic water bottles into bags, so what's leftover is sent to any registered vegan to be consumed, thereby reducing landfill waste.
You may be asking, How is that possible? How can you digest tires? Well, it's easy! Once you register at the iamveganbecauseicareaboutpeopleandtheirchildrenwhointurndontcareaboutme.org, you receive, between 6-8 weeks, your Vegan Survival Kit. It includes:
A set of stainless steel teeth
A silver lined stomach
A plastic--made out of soda bottles, of course--intestinal tract
A pine scented air freshener
When you go vegan, it's a lot like converting your car to biodiesel: you get a whole new system. It's a difficult adjustment for the first month, but by the second month, there is nothing your system can't handle. I've even graduated to picking through construction sites! You wouldn't believe how good nails are between a couple of two by fours.
So, for anyone out there who thinks veganism might be something you're interested in, ask yourself a few basic questions:
Do I care about how animals are treated?
Do I care about the topsoil they are ruining and will never come back?
Do I care about setting healthy food habits for my children? (I'm sorry, but Snackables don't count.) :(
Do I care about my children inheriting a healthy planet?
If you answered no to any of these questions, you might not qualify for the program. But don't fret. I can help you. I'm here day or night to answer your vegan questions. And remember, if you ever get a hankerin' to make fun of someone who isn't like you, think about what makes them different and try it again.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
It's Not About You
I do not make it a habit to buy books from giant chain stores. Today was the first time this year I found myself standing in one. There is no excuse for my being there. I could have waited. Nicolle Wallace's new novel, Eighteen Acres, isn't going anywhere. But I felt an overwhelming urge to have it in my hot, little hand. And I happened to be in the store's neighborhood.
But the experience wasn't a total bust. I met a local author who was there signing books, and he discussed his path to publication with me. It was the highlight of my day. I even bought his book.
When I was checking out, the man assisting me--after turning the author's book round and round between his hands--finally made the connection. "Oh, you're buying the guy who's here's book."
"Yes."
"So, what's it about?
"An African American and a Caucasian forging a friendship during the Vietnam War and how they come out afterwards."
The guy looked at me and said, "Oh, is he the Caucasian?"
I waited for the hint that he was joking: A raised eyebrow, a sideways smile, a chuckle. Nothing.
I say, "It's a work of fiction? But, yes, he was in Vietnam. You write about what you know."
Our discussion ended there.
Here's a little something everyone should know. Writers don't write about the people in their lives, unless it's a memoir. Fiction means it's not based in truth or fact, that it's made-up. While this may not be true for all writers, it is certainly true for me. My characters tell me who they are, not the other way around. I know that may sound strange, but it's true. They surprise me all the time.
So if/when my novel is published, and you know me and read it, know none of the characters are you. While characteristics may match some of your own, I assure you, it's still not you. And I'm not in it either. So don't waste your time trying to figure out which character you are. You'll only miss out on what the real characters are trying to tell you: this is our story.
But the experience wasn't a total bust. I met a local author who was there signing books, and he discussed his path to publication with me. It was the highlight of my day. I even bought his book.
When I was checking out, the man assisting me--after turning the author's book round and round between his hands--finally made the connection. "Oh, you're buying the guy who's here's book."
"Yes."
"So, what's it about?
"An African American and a Caucasian forging a friendship during the Vietnam War and how they come out afterwards."
The guy looked at me and said, "Oh, is he the Caucasian?"
I waited for the hint that he was joking: A raised eyebrow, a sideways smile, a chuckle. Nothing.
I say, "It's a work of fiction? But, yes, he was in Vietnam. You write about what you know."
Our discussion ended there.
Here's a little something everyone should know. Writers don't write about the people in their lives, unless it's a memoir. Fiction means it's not based in truth or fact, that it's made-up. While this may not be true for all writers, it is certainly true for me. My characters tell me who they are, not the other way around. I know that may sound strange, but it's true. They surprise me all the time.
So if/when my novel is published, and you know me and read it, know none of the characters are you. While characteristics may match some of your own, I assure you, it's still not you. And I'm not in it either. So don't waste your time trying to figure out which character you are. You'll only miss out on what the real characters are trying to tell you: this is our story.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Healthy Fear
When you've had absolutely no use for God and then suddenly, after a close friend dies, you find God, maybe in the pantry or in the lettuce crisper, you give yourself away too easily: Your fear is showing.
Every creature on this planet is afraid of dying. We're supposed to be afraid to die. It keeps us from doing stupid shit that kills us, like crossing the street against a green light, jumping off a twenty-story building with the four corners of a sheet tied to each one of our appendages, eating rotten food, sleeping with Pamela Anderson or Tommy Lee. Without a healthy fear of death, our species would become extinct. It's called survival instincts, but we don't tell ourselves that's what we're doing. Because, somehow, instead of surviving, we're doing God's will.
Why does the animal kingdom get to have survival instincts and we get to have fairy tales? Why is it that our species is the only one that has come up with a safety net--going to a beautiful place where everyone you've ever loved is there waiting for you-- for after you die? Why are we the species that gets to comfort ourselves with the God idea while the animals simply die?
My wife was quick to point out that because animals communicate with each other, and because we'll never have a deer mind, or a turkey mind, or a tiger mind, or a bear mind, or a horse mind, or a dog mind, we have no idea what kind of system animals have in place for what happens to them when they die. True. If I knew they had all been touched by the hand of God, and were just biding their time until He called them home, I might not be so skeptical.
As it currently stands, I am terrified to die. I love my life and hate to think of it ending. I'll continue to white knuckle it down the mountain pass when the road is covered in ice. I'll continue to care about what food I put in my body. I'll refrain from stepping foot into a rough neighborhood. And when my day to die comes, I'll continue to dismiss a guy wearing a robe, with real estate in the sky, who is also his own son, as a fairy tale. But I'll admit, it is a good one.
Every creature on this planet is afraid of dying. We're supposed to be afraid to die. It keeps us from doing stupid shit that kills us, like crossing the street against a green light, jumping off a twenty-story building with the four corners of a sheet tied to each one of our appendages, eating rotten food, sleeping with Pamela Anderson or Tommy Lee. Without a healthy fear of death, our species would become extinct. It's called survival instincts, but we don't tell ourselves that's what we're doing. Because, somehow, instead of surviving, we're doing God's will.
Why does the animal kingdom get to have survival instincts and we get to have fairy tales? Why is it that our species is the only one that has come up with a safety net--going to a beautiful place where everyone you've ever loved is there waiting for you-- for after you die? Why are we the species that gets to comfort ourselves with the God idea while the animals simply die?
My wife was quick to point out that because animals communicate with each other, and because we'll never have a deer mind, or a turkey mind, or a tiger mind, or a bear mind, or a horse mind, or a dog mind, we have no idea what kind of system animals have in place for what happens to them when they die. True. If I knew they had all been touched by the hand of God, and were just biding their time until He called them home, I might not be so skeptical.
As it currently stands, I am terrified to die. I love my life and hate to think of it ending. I'll continue to white knuckle it down the mountain pass when the road is covered in ice. I'll continue to care about what food I put in my body. I'll refrain from stepping foot into a rough neighborhood. And when my day to die comes, I'll continue to dismiss a guy wearing a robe, with real estate in the sky, who is also his own son, as a fairy tale. But I'll admit, it is a good one.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Twitter: A Love Story
I joined Twitter this week. I didn't do it because I think everyone wants to hear what I have to say. I did it because I can follow literary agents, publishers, and anyone else of interest in the industry. And whether I like it or not, it is a great marketing tool.
I still have little idea on how it works, but I'd like to invite you all to follow along. You can find me, I think, at http://twitter.com/kelceymckinley
If you think my words are worth the eye damage the glow of the computer screen creates, share my blog with others. Tell everyone I'm a twitterer, or a tweeter, or whatever it is called. (I feel like John McCain. Next thing you know, I'm going to buy one of those Google machines.) Share it with everyone you know. I can't build a base without you. If I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it with all of you by my side. Don't think you don't play a part in my success, because you do.
<Turning the lights down low, cueing music, clearing throat, speaking with a deep voice>: Let's make this love of stories story together.
To anyone who is reading this, know you are the Barbara Hershey to my Bette Midler. And I don't mean that in a gay way. Or in a let's buy a house together way. Or in a way that suggests you're going to get an incurable disease, and I'm going to have to sing a song about it. I mean it in the only way possible: "You are the wind beneath my wings."
I promise to never use that line again. I still feel a little cliche' and average having used it once.
I still have little idea on how it works, but I'd like to invite you all to follow along. You can find me, I think, at http://twitter.com/kelceymckinley
If you think my words are worth the eye damage the glow of the computer screen creates, share my blog with others. Tell everyone I'm a twitterer, or a tweeter, or whatever it is called. (I feel like John McCain. Next thing you know, I'm going to buy one of those Google machines.) Share it with everyone you know. I can't build a base without you. If I'm going to make it, I'm going to make it with all of you by my side. Don't think you don't play a part in my success, because you do.
<Turning the lights down low, cueing music, clearing throat, speaking with a deep voice>: Let's make this love of stories story together.
To anyone who is reading this, know you are the Barbara Hershey to my Bette Midler. And I don't mean that in a gay way. Or in a let's buy a house together way. Or in a way that suggests you're going to get an incurable disease, and I'm going to have to sing a song about it. I mean it in the only way possible: "You are the wind beneath my wings."
I promise to never use that line again. I still feel a little cliche' and average having used it once.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Hump-day Haiku: Post Election
Curly-headed man
is Kentucky's Senate choice.
Run, black people, run.
Christine O'Donnell
failed to make the Senate cut.
She should be a witch.
I can't really tell;
she looks a little German.
We'll miss you, Sharron.
is Kentucky's Senate choice.
Run, black people, run.
Christine O'Donnell
failed to make the Senate cut.
She should be a witch.
I can't really tell;
she looks a little German.
We'll miss you, Sharron.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Election Eve
Sharron Angle wants to shoot some folks up if she doesn't win in Nevada. She scares white people by telling them brown skinned people are going to take over their colleges. Then she announced, without humility, to a group of Hispanic students that she thinks some of them look Asian. Really? You're just going to say that out loud? You don't have to say everything you're thinking. Nut-bag crazy! and people still want to vote for her.
Christine O'Donnell doesn't know there is separation of church and state in the Constitution. Oh. Em. Gee. And she thinks being gay can be cured. Is she smarter than a fifth grader? Nut-bag crazy! and people will still vote for her.
Ken Buck thinks he's qualified to be in the Sentate because he doesn't wear high heels. Are you for reals, Ken? What back-woods barn did you crawl out of? Nut-bag crazy! and he's leading Michael Bennet by one point.
And that's just scimming the top. There are others, but I don't have that kind of time.
I can't help to think that these candidates are viable because they think and talk just like the people who want to vote for them do.
When did it come to pass that we want people like us running our country? I don't want a sarcastic, smart-ass lesbian who dropped out of college deciding our foreign policy. I don't want Barbeque Bob in charge of Wall Street reform. I don't care how good his steaks are! And I definately don't want a racist, gun crazed, nut-bag, or someone who doesn't even know what's in the constitution, anywhere near my "freedoms" (I'm still not allowed to marry the person I love, like I'm some fifteen-year-old who doesn't yet have a driver's license. I don't call that freedom.)
The crazier people get, the more I think they're scared. And I get it. I am terrified that this country is going to be taken back fifty years, to a time when a woman's body was the property of the government. A time when a child's education was interrupted for prayer. A time when I had a curfew.
So get out there tomorrow and have your say. Because I will beat down your door if I have to go to bed at 7:30 again and lay next to my "roommate"!
Christine O'Donnell doesn't know there is separation of church and state in the Constitution. Oh. Em. Gee. And she thinks being gay can be cured. Is she smarter than a fifth grader? Nut-bag crazy! and people will still vote for her.
Ken Buck thinks he's qualified to be in the Sentate because he doesn't wear high heels. Are you for reals, Ken? What back-woods barn did you crawl out of? Nut-bag crazy! and he's leading Michael Bennet by one point.
And that's just scimming the top. There are others, but I don't have that kind of time.
I can't help to think that these candidates are viable because they think and talk just like the people who want to vote for them do.
When did it come to pass that we want people like us running our country? I don't want a sarcastic, smart-ass lesbian who dropped out of college deciding our foreign policy. I don't want Barbeque Bob in charge of Wall Street reform. I don't care how good his steaks are! And I definately don't want a racist, gun crazed, nut-bag, or someone who doesn't even know what's in the constitution, anywhere near my "freedoms" (I'm still not allowed to marry the person I love, like I'm some fifteen-year-old who doesn't yet have a driver's license. I don't call that freedom.)
The crazier people get, the more I think they're scared. And I get it. I am terrified that this country is going to be taken back fifty years, to a time when a woman's body was the property of the government. A time when a child's education was interrupted for prayer. A time when I had a curfew.
So get out there tomorrow and have your say. Because I will beat down your door if I have to go to bed at 7:30 again and lay next to my "roommate"!
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